Closed Off, High Walls
by Flame of a Dark Phoenix
Summary: John doesn't react too well to Sherlock's return. This is a story about mending broken relationships and love confessions, and also a good deal of BAMF!John. I do apologize for the copious amounts of Buffy references. I may have also made Mycroft into a Giles fangirl... I FEEL NO SHAME


Disclaimer: I own _nothing. Nada. Split_. If I did the show would be terrible because I cannot write screenplays to save my life.

* * *

Sherlock felt like his head was about to explode. Everything was wrong wrong wrong! Skin too tight and the feeling that everything was spinning.

He'd expected John to be angry. Sherlock had hurt him, he knew that. But instead he'd gotten hats. John had called him a freak, said,"You can't even stay dead can you? Even your death was fake, fake as everything else about you!" He had screamed that before shoving Sherlock out the door and down the steps.

Sherlock had lain there for a few seconds. He'd been hurt worse physically, but that John was the one who pushed him seemed to increase the pain tenfold.

He now lay in his bed in the dingy flat Mycroft had provided him with and though. He was a freak. If John said so it must be true. Because John was always right about these things. It had been a miracle really that he hadn't come to this conclusion faster. Everyone always did, eventually.

Sherlock closed his eyes and entered his Palace. He'd opened it after meeting John, opening himself up to emotions that he'd locked away since Victor. Now it was time for the walls to go back up.

The first thing Sherlock needed to deal with was the "John" room. This room was larger than an ancient computer. He locked the door and hid it. Even the good memories hurt now.

The job was easy after that. He built up his walls until he was once again a sociopath. All his emotions were hidden, locked in a Leviathan safe. He deleted the key.

Snapping his eyes open he looked at his phone. 12:47. Hm... it had taken him 53 minutes to do a simple cleaning. Sentiment truly was cluttering.

Sherlock went through the mental calculation of how long he had gone without sleep. Five days was long, even for him. Deciding his transport might as well get some recharging, he induced himself to sleep. He deleted the thought that reminded him he hadn't slept because of nightmares soon after it was formed. Irrelevant.

Sherlock woke up three hours later to his phone vibrating. Immediately alert, he turned over and got up off the bed. Grabbing the phone, he saw that he'd received a text from Lestrade.

Sherlock had revealed his continued existence to the DI a few minutes after arriving back at the flat from 221B through a text. At the time he decided that text was safer, as there was a less likely chance of him getting hurt again.

From the text, which spoke of a murder that had happened in a construction site, he deduced that Lestrade had been angry, but no longer was. Donovan and Anderson had somehow managed to hold onto their jobs, despite their mutual incompetence, and Lestrade was worried that Sherlock would be upset to see them.

Sherlock mentally scoffed at the idea. The suicide, after all, had been a hoax. So why would any of the supposed emotional causes of said suicide be any more real? Deciding that the case sounded vaguely interesting enough to merit interacting with Donovan and Anderson, he pulled on his coat and hailed a cab to go to the crime scene.

Greg resisted sighing in annoyance when Sherlock showed up and immediately decided to start ridiculing Sally and Anderson. He'd warned the two to be nicer to him, but if he continued like this, the insults would be fast coming.

As Sherlock bent over the corpse of John Harrison, a middle aged worker who looked like he had been crushed to death, Lestrade noticed the lack of a familiar presence.

"Where's John?" he asked the detective.

Greg barely noticed the tiny flinch before it was gone, and obviously deleted. "I did not ask him to come. Why should I?" was the answer. Greg blinked, then started slightly. Sherlock sounded like he had pre-John. Blank, disinterested in anything but the puzzle. One would have thought John would have been overjoyed at Sherlock's return, maybe even come out of the depression that had slowly been eating away at him. Instead there was this. Whatever this was.

"Your choice. Thoughts?"

"Yes, unlike you. The answer is obvious, I do not know why you called me out here," Greg rolled his eyes. Hopefully whatever had happened between Sherlock and John would resolve soon, pre-John Sherlock was horrible.

"Well, us idiots need to know, so care to explain?"

"Harrison is interested in the occult, as can by the fact that he has several books on it on his phone. Obviously his girlfriend found this out, and being highly superstitious, killed him by crushing him with stones, as was done to male witches during the Salem Witch trials. She is currently hiding in a church, convinced that they still follow the Middle Ages rule of not allowing law enforcement through the door. Now, excuse me, I have an experiment that I must finish," with that, Sherlock ran off, leaving Greg and his two colleagues staring at where he'd been.

"I knew that the Freak was just putting on an act. John probably kicked him out. Good for him, I say," Anderson said, smirking.

"Shut up Anderson," Sally said, surprising both Anderson and Greg. "Can't you see he was hurting? He flinched when John was mentioned."

"I doubt it. He's a psychopath, remember?"

Greg thought about the last few months before Sherlock jumped, how he'd appeared to have changed for the better. He really needed to talk to John. Something else must be going on here.

John hadn't slept that night. He never did, after seeing a hallucination, for fear that they'd come back during the night.

His anger towards the hallucination had been genuine. It had been three months. John had thought they were gone, finally banished from his mind. He wouldn't have said what he'd said to the real one. He was the most human man John had ever known.

John sat in his chair, staring at the violin resting on the chair opposite. It had three year's worth of dust on it. John hadn't moved it, scared of getting a reaction similar to when he'd attempted to move the skull.

He hadn't been able to touch it. All he'd seen was falling falling, empties eyes no pulse, nothing nothing nothing and the scent of blood in his nostrils and he was dead dead dead...

John came back to himself curled in a ball at the foot of his chair. Despite the increased rarity of the hallucinations, the memories were getting worse. And some were not memories, but creations of his own mind.

Enemy combatants, all with his face, his pale skin and multi-colored eyes out of place. Almost every night, John killed him.

In all honesty, that was the crux of the matter. John blamed himself. To a rational mind, the blame appeared to be more of a strange cycle of overly complicated justifications, but John was not exactly thinking rationally at the moment. If somehow John hadn't met him that maybe he wouldn't be dead, but then John would be in exactly the same place he was now, slowly killing himself with cigarettes.

Having met him, John should have at least convinced him not to pursue Moriarty. Or gotten as close to him as he did.

Burn the heart. Moriarty didn't burn his heart, because he was dead. Moriarty burned John's, leaving him a broken shell of a man.

Grabbing another cigarette, John smiled humorlessly at the bullet hole ridden smiley face. Despite the near impossibility of keeping up a smoking habit in London, of the two addictions he'd considered soon after the Fall, smoking was, ironically enough, less dangerous. An alcoholic doctor was much more likely to kill someone than a nicotine addicted doctor.

That was the only point in his existence anymore. Helping other people.

John had died when he jumped. He'd died when he'd jumped because he lo-

John squeezed his eyes shut. Couldn't think of that, couldn't think of that. Not ever.

Greg silently opened the door to 221B, and sighed. John was sitting, his back the wall, cigarette held limply in his hand. He looked much the same as he had the last time Greg had visited. Not only that, but John looked old. And very very tired.

"I had a hallucination last night," John said, not looking up. "I yelled at it and it went away. It was of him. They're always of him."

Greg closed his eyes for an instant, and felt all the righteous anger he had felt on Sherlock's behalf drain away. John and Sherlock might as well have been in different universes last night.

"That wasn't a hallucination. Sherlock's alive."

John started. Greg ran up to him, keeping him from toppling over onto his back.

"No, no, no, I couldn't have, I couldn't have," John whispered, eyes wide. They reminded Greg of those of a child in shock, round and unseeing.

Without warning the younger man curled into a ball, his body shaking with silent sobs.

"What did you say John?" Greg asked, both dreading and needing to know the answer.

"I called him a freak. Why did I do that? Why couldn't I tell? I lo- miss him and I couldn't tell that it wasn't fake? Why did I call him fake?" Greg heard the cut off word, and mentally cursed Moriarty for what felt like the billionth time this year.

"John, were you and Sherlock together?" Greg asked the younger man, crouching down by John.

"Almost. The day... the day he Fell I was going to ask him... maybe if I'd..." John curled even more into himself, now sobbing loudly.

"I have to go. Will you be alright?"

"Eventually." John straightened, and got up. Greg was reminded, in that moment, of Sherlock's own expression at the crime scene. Blank. "I have to, don't I? Maybe he will forgive, maybe he won't."

"Good bye John," Greg said, closing the door behind him. Today had been emotionally draining, that was for certain.

Taking out his phone, he noticed a text from Mycroft.

I take it the conversation did not go well? -M

You know the M makes you seem like someone out of bloody James Bond, right? And actually, it wasn't so bad. I learned a few things that are rather troubling though.

Really? So, I do not have to have John eviscerated for hurting my baby brother? -M

No. You do not. Because he didn't realize it was Sherlock he was talking to.

It certainly seemed as though he was. -M

He thought he was hallucinating. Apparently that was his usual reaction to hallucinations, because it was the only way they would leave.

This is certainly an interesting development. How was John when you left? -M

Curled up in a ball on the floor. He loves Sherlock. Apparently was going to ask him out the day Sherlock jumped.

Well, I do believe I know what we need to do. Ready to play matchmaker, Gregory? -M

We'll need to tread carefully. Both of them are hurting pretty badly, and the last three years can't be erased in a week.

Of course. But as you say, like the fictional head of MI6, I have ways. -M

You're fucking creepy, you know that?

And yet you still love me. Doesn't this call into question your own sanity? -M

Yes. Yes it does.

Mycroft suppressed a sigh as he locked his phone. This was certainly unexpected. Switching to his computer, he cancelled the request to kidnap John. Perhaps a meeting with Mycroft would not be the best thing for the captain.

The government official was sitting at his desk. Contrary to popular belief, his office was not the picture of opulence, as a) that would have been an utter waste of resources b) Mycroft was very rarely there. There was his desk, his computer, and the far wall was covered in monitors. He mostly used these to watch the CCTV (unless he was stalking Gregory or his brother, where he used his computer) or monitor various computer networks from various government agencies and/or terrorist organizations.

His window gave him a view of one of the more polluted sections of the Thames. The cover for his building was old abandoned warehouse. A bit cliche but useful nonetheless.

Now what to do about the situation John had accidentally caused, helped along rather unfortunately by his brother. According to his husband, Sherlock had reverted to his pre-John state of enforced sociopathy. Which was not good at all. Coupled with John's current state of mind and it was the depressing reality that there may be two real suicides very soon if someone did not step in.

And, despite the fact that Sherlock would likely hate him forever if this failed, that would have to be him.

Mycroft was interrupted from his thoughts by Anthea knocking at his door. "Excuse me, sir, Andrei Nikolaevich wishes to speak to you," his PA told him.

He sighed loudly. The Russian had been trying to convince Mycroft that restarting the Cold War officially was a good idea.

"Put him up" he told her. Sadly, his domestic issues would have to wait. He had a former KGB officer to deal with.

Sherlock scowled when he noticed the text from Mycroft.

What do you want? -S

Tsk, little brother, is it impossible merely to wish to speak to you, now that you are officially in the land of the living? -M

Yes. Now why are you texting me? -S

You've hurt John a good deal, otouto. -M

How is this my problem? -S

Don't lie to me, I know what he said to you. -M

It was nothing but the truth. -S

But, he didn't see it as such. He has seen you many times before Sherlock, your entrance in 221B not the first time an image of you claimed to have returned. -M

Sherlock slowly put the phone down. When he thought about it logically, that made sense. Reviewing the memory in his head, Sherlock realized that John had refused to look at him. John looked old and tired, and the anger was more frustrated, the words rehearsed. "Everything about you is fake!"

Perhaps John was just speaking about the hallucination, not Sherlock in fact being a fake genius?

Sherlock shook his head, thumping his feet against the side of his bed. Not important, not anymore. He didn't need John. Not anymore.

John couldn't understand it. Couldn't accept it. How could he have done that?

He forced himself to think his name. Sherlock. Sherlock was not dead. He'd yelled at Sherlock, said things to Sherlock he would never had, had he known.

How could he have not known? Was his mind so addled by the depression that he couldn't do something simple like tell the difference between fake and real?

John grinned bitterly, and got up from where he was still sitting on the floor. Might as well get a few hours of rest, before the nightmares kicked in. Wouldn't do for him to be unduly tired in the morning.

Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair. Why would Sherlock want him now? He was pathetic, and old. Sherlock needed someone just as brilliant, who could keep up with him, not a broken down ex-army doctor with nightmares.

John desperately needed Sherlock, but didn't know if Sherlock needed him. Had he deleted John already, locking up all his emotions again?

The one time Sherlock had gotten well and truly hammered in front of John, he had let slip a small part of a story. The story was about a man named Victor Trevor, that he was the reason Sherlock had built up so many walls around his Palace.

John made the slow trudge back to his room, wincing every time he stepped on his bum leg. He'd gotten the limp back long ago, and hadn't ever bothered to try to get rid of it.

No more than he deserved. How could he have said those things to him?

Pausing for a second outside Sherlock's old room, just before he went upstairs, John pressed his hand against the door and sighed.

"I love you, you idiot," he whispered. Just saying them, letting them out, made him feel better. Not okay, maybe he'd never be ok, but he was better. He felt a bit like Rose from Doctor Who, stuck across a dimension from the one he loved.

Now he could just hope that Sherlock would be willing to blow up a star and say hello.

Elsewhere in London, having not yet moved from the flat provided by Mycroft a 7B Praed Street, Sherlock was crying.

He was curled up, back against the door to the bathroom. To anyone watching, it would have looked like he was trying to compensate for not crying for years. Which he was, in a way. The last time Sherlock had cried like this was after Victor left him.

Sherlock hated crying. Hated how it felt, how the tears tasted, and the emotions left behind by the tears.

Usually Sherlock could delete his emotions, but something he'd seen had made the dams break, causing the Leviathan safe around his heart to implode on itself.

He had been looking through newspaper articles, looking to see if anyone had recognized his deception before it was safe (besides the conspiracy theorists, of course, who no one ever listened too). Instead he found a page on John's blog that brought what Mycroft had told him into sharp focus.

Fake

I keep seeing him. It's horrible horrible horrible because they aren't real. I know that thinking you see someone in someone else is a normal part of grief, but having hallucinations isn't normal. The only way I can get rid of them is by screaming, pushing, hurting them in ways I would never do to the real one. Because he is was the most amazing I ever knew.

It's terribly boring, being sad. But in other ways you can't think of anything else. Whenever I'm not at the clinic doing doctory things, I feel like I'm about to implode on myself. Everything is too loud, and I can't help but want to destroy everything so it can be quiet.

But I'll go on. Because that's what he wanted, right? He wanted me to live, trading his life for mine. And now I got to keep that promise, 'cause I always keep my promises.

Can't believe it's bloody Christmas tomorrow. I think my best option would be to get drunk, but I'll avoid that. Might as well go see how Mrs. Hudson's doing.

I don't think I'll blog again after this. This blog is about him right? And right now, it just hurts too much to think about that.

John had only kept living because he'd figured out (brilliant, amazing wonderful John, how could he have ever doubted him?) that Sherlock had died to save his life.

That is what kept Sherlock doubled over in pain, that there was a chance that everything Sherlock had done for John could have been for nothing. That John could have really killed himself.

Did John even want to be with Sherlock? Sherlock had all but ignored him these last two days, wrapped up in his own grief, and deleting every mention by his mind that he was in fact grieving.

Slowly getting up, Sherlock arched his back to pop it. Maybe sentiment was messy, but sentiment was likely the only thing keeping him sane.

To be honest, the sociopathy act was becoming more and more tiring to hold up.

Of course, he could never tell Lestrade or Mycroft of this. Ever since they started dating, their levels of insufferableness had been combined.

Also he had a reputation to maintain.

Leaning on the door, he, feeling a bit foolish, whispered "I love you".

Feeling a bit like the Doctor, he wondered if he'd be able to blow up a star and say hello. And if John would even want to receive the message.

Sherlock started, and fell off his chair when he heard a knock on the door.

Scrambling to get back in his seat, he walked over and opened the door. It was Mycroft. "Piss off anichan," he said, without any real anger in his voice.

Mycroft noted the honorific and sighed. "You've been crying, otouto," he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded and looked down. "Que-ce que je peux faire? La seule raison que John est encore en vie c'est parce qu'il a devivé la raison pourquoi je me suis suicidé."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Vraiment? Tu l'as vraiment sous-estimer" he said, responding in the same language Sherlock had started in. Since they were children, his little brother had been more affectionate in French and Japanese than in English.

Both of them had learned these languages in class, but had continued their learning of them because their father couldn't speak foreign languages for shit. It was their secret language, and it stayed that way even as they grew older.

"Tu ne pense que je connais cela?" Sherlock said, looking desperate. "Pourquoi j'étai tellement stupide? J'ai donner de la peine a nous deux, pour une raison qui, en pessan, n'est même pas une raison crédible. Je l'aime, Mycroft. Je l'aime, mais est ce qu'il peut m'aimer, apres tout ce que j'ai faites?"

Mycroft walked over to his younger brother, who was still sitting on the chair, stiller than he probably should have been. "Il t'aime. Il est ton cœur, petit frere." he said, placing a hand on Sherlock shoulder. It was the most affectionate he'd been in years, since the days when they would lock themselves upstairs, hiding from parents who enjoyed hurting each other.

"Je s'ai, grand frere. Comment est-ce que tu as convaincu Lestrade a sortir avec toi?" he asked suddenly.

Mycroft half smirked, "Il mas demander. Apparemment il était fatigué d'avoir un harceleur benevolent."

Sherlock nodded. "You think that John would want to date me?" he asked in English.

Mycroft sighed. "He was going to ask you out the day you jumped."

"Oh kami, que-ce que j'ai faits?"

"Le necessaire, otouto."

Sherlock looked down miserably. "I can't talk to him at the moment. There are still bits of me that think he really believed what he said, when he called me a freak."

Mycroft sighed. He'd suspected that to be the case, but apparently living with Lestrade had made him sentimental, as he'd hoped that maybe it wouldn't. "I understand. Now, I wonder how Greg is doing over at John's?"

Sherlock looked at him horrified. "You didn't!" he said, eyes wide.

"Tag team the two of you you mean? Yes, we did."

Mycroft dodged a pillow aimed at him by his younger brother. "I HATE YOU!" he said, yelling.

Deciding it was time that he leave, the government official left the flat, hiding a chuckle as a cough.

Greg decided that maybe this wasn't a good idea when he noticed that John appeared to have recovered slightly. Then he remembered his friend, curled up in a ball sobbing, and decided that maybe he wasn't actually ok.

"John, you need to talk to Sherlock," he said, deciding that bluntness would probably be the best policy in this case.

The doctor, who was currently sitting at the table in 221B's kitchen across from Greg, started for a second. "Why? Why would he want to talk to me? I hurt him..."

Greg resisted the urge to slap the doctor. "He loves you, you idiot! Seriously, when I married Mycroft I did not think that it would include matchmaking with morons." At John's surprised look, Greg sighed, "look, I know you're both hurting. Three years of suffering on both your ends isn't going to dissipate overnight. But you need each other."

John smiled slightly, "I don't know if he wants to talk to me yet. Sherlock is probably emotionally unstable at the moment, and... yeah." John put his head on the table in front of his for a few seconds, arms crossed in front of it. Shifting his head so that it peeked out from behind his arms, he said "I don't know if I am either,"

Greg sighed. "I know John. But don't worry, it will work. Somehow, it will work"

Of course, if Greg had realized at the time that the thing that would bring John and Sherlock together involved snipers and bullets, he would have very gladly not spoken. But he had, and the future would happen as it would.

Despite it being nearly four years since he was last on active duty, John can immediately tell that he is being watched. It's the same sense that kept him alive in long nights in Afghanistan, the silences between the raids sometimes more deadly than actual combat. It was in the silences when enemy snipers killed men lying next to you, or bombs exploded, shattering the quiet.

Translating this to life in London, John noticed how not all the people trailing him were Mycroft's people. The ones who weren't were too plain, too average.

He definitely noticed when a woman with a bug attempted to approach him one day when he was leaving the clinic. He was polite as always, but decided that dating would be out, not that he'd ever tried, if that was the game of whoever was playing this.

Even though Sherlock was alive, it was a possibility that some of Moriarty's network was still out there.

The day he saw the woman with the bug, instead of going straight to 221B, he stopped at the nearest CCTV camera. Checking that no one else was around, he held up a notebook he kept for this reason and wrote, "I HAVE A STALKER" in big letters.

The response was almost immediate. Are you talking about me, doctor? I am flattered, but I am a married man. -M

Rolling his eyes, John texted, "Other than you. I think Moriarty's web still has some pieces left."

This is already known to me. Do not worry, I will take care of it. -M

John was tempted to reply that that was reassuring, but decided that was overly childish, and, to be honest, more of Sherlock's area.

Walking home, he entered the flat and looked around. Something had been moved. He couldn't tell what, but someone had been there. Whatever they had been looking for, they hadn't found, and whoever had replaced the objects had done a skillful job of it, but John had been spending the last three years in enough grief to be unable to move objects around his flat unless strictly necessary, and knew where everything was supposed to be.

Hoping that the number he'd never deleted from his contacts was still accurate, John texted, I think I'm about to get shot to someone who might never want to talk to him again.

Sherlock nearly ignored the text when he saw who it was from. Deciding that this course of action would not get him more capable of interacting with John again in the future, he nearly dropped his phone when he read its contents.

Are you sure? -S

The response was almost immediate. Yes. Because things have been moved. I wouldn't have moved them, and I don't let anyone else move them.

The video file from his confrontation with John suddenly popped up. Freezing the image, Sherlock realized that a good amount of the objects in the room appeared to not have been moved in three years. This was both comforting and disturbing, and to be looked at later.

I will be there. -S As he pressed send, Sherlock was surprised to realize that this was true. He was going to be there. He had to keep John from dying.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and hailed a cab. Naming his destination, he tried to keep himself from fidgeting as the cab got stuck in traffic. Nothing he could do in this situation. Which made his skin crawl in agitation.

John knew what he was doing. He didn't have clearance level to rival Mycroft's (and now, apparently, Sherlock's) for nothing. While a fire escape in a London flat was rather different than a hotel in Tehran, it was the same principle. No one noticed him, because he looked so normal.

He was sitting quietly in a corner when the sniper came up the stairs. Sebastianne Moran had been Moriarty's operation, the brawn to his brain.

John noticed with a quick grin that this was the woman who had propositioned him. Good thing he hadn't gone with her. It wasn't just James Bond characters from the 80s who could kill men with their thighs. And that would have been a rather ignoble way to go, especially when compared to a full body jump off a building.

He knew Sherlock was coming, but had decided to take matters into his own hands. He was perfectly capable of defending himself, despite the fact that the entire world had placed him into the role of dupe after the whole Reichenbach fiasco.

Grabbing his gun from where he'd hidden it behind his back, pointed the gun at Sebastianne's head. "You do realize that I am not in fact there you know?" he said, referring to the projection on the curtains of his window across the street, a shadow that occasionally moved.

The woman turned around, and to her credit, there was only a slight widening of her eyes to show any surprise.

John stepped forward, allowing himself to be seen clearer.

Sebastianne looked like the stereotypical female killer for hire. Black hair down to her waist, pale skin, full red lips and dark eyes. The respect he had for her came from the fact that she wore black slacks and a T-shirt. Nothing ridiculous, unlike aforementioned Bond assassins. If John's interest in woman had been anything other than a form of denial, he would have gone weak kneed.

Instead, he kept his hand steady.

"You are much stronger than I was told, John Watson," she said, batting her eyebrows flirtatiously at him. "I like strong men."

John sighed. This was always the problem with other snipers. They enjoyed the sound of their own voices. So, John did what he always shouted at heros in the movies to do. "I do to," he said blandly. He shot her, point blank in the middle of the forehead. He could deal with the emotions later, as he'd been trained.

Military issue handguns, being extremely accurate, were extremely deadly when at close range. John winced slightly as the kickback drove into his bad shoulder, then pocketed his gun and pulled out his mobile.

Resisting the urge to kick the crumpled body in front of him, he dialed a number he had no business knowing, unless, of course, he had the clearance. Which he did, though the owner of that particular number had not appeared to realize this.

"Mycroft, I need you to bring a team here stat. ... Yes, she's dead...Yes, I killed her...I was a sniper Mycroft...You didn't have the clearance," he said, ending the call.

Walking calmly down the stairs, he left Sebastianne where she was. He did not enjoy killing people. He merely did what he had to do.

Sherlock found John leaning against the door of 221, distractedly smoking a cigarette. "I'm alright, you don't have to worry, I dealt with the threat on my own. Mycroft's people are dealing with the body, and you're here. Lestrade's helping on the legal end of things, mostly just convincing the super that investigating the death of one of the world's most infamous snipers would be a terrible idea."

For once in his life Sherlock was the one rendered speechless. "You killed... Sebastianne Moran?" he asked, slightly incredulous. The original reason he had returned was to ask John's aid on apprehending her, but that plan had been derailed by John's reaction to his appearance, and Sherlock's subsequent emotional breakdown. Apparently it had been John who ended up blowing up the star, surprising the hell out of Sherlock.

John looked pensive more a moment, then dropped the cigarette, crushing in under his heel. Sherlock was tempted to comment on how cliché that action was, but held his tongue. John stared at Sherlock for a moment longer then sighed, his posture drooping slightly. "I suppose you have a high enough level clearance now," he said, chewing on his bottom lip. "So, you probably know by now that I was a sniper in the Royal Army. Some of the missions I was sent on were highly classified and I ended up with a clearance level to rival Mycroft's."

Sherlock nodded, "I would have arrived sooner, but my flat is half way across London and I got stuck in traffic"

John smiled slightly, "I'm glad you tried to show up, didn't even know if that number was accurate anymore. Never had the heart to delete it," he said, shrugging.

"Are... are we okay?" he asked tentatively.

"We will be Sherlock," John said quietly, looking down a little.

That would be alright for now. "Angelo's or takeout?" he asked after a while, the two of them just still just standing in almost companionable silence in front of the black door leading to home.

This gets him a genuine smile from John. "Are you asking me out on a date?" he asked, tilting his head at Sherlock.

"If you want it to be one." Sherlock answered, smiling at his (hopefully) flatmate.

John looked at Sherlock for a few seconds, then nodded. "Yes, I'll go on a date with you, you great sod. Only if you promise to stay the night. I'm likely to have an emotional reaction to, you know, killing someone today, and I want you to be there. If you want, of course."

Sherlock felt his facial muscles pull into a smile, "Of course John."

John smiled when he watched Angelo great Sherlock with a bone crushing hug. "I always knew you were alive," he said, before leaving the two of them alone.

They were sitting on opposite sides of Sherlock's table, the candle finally overseeing a meeting of a romantic nature.

"So." John said, looking at Sherlock. He sincerely hoped that what he wanted to say was conveyed by that, by one of the multiple clues the other man could pick up on. I'm upset with you. You know that, but I still want to be with you. And I'm sorry.

"I know." Sherlock said. John could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, the first time in John's memory that Sherlock had shown true nervousness.

"Was it real?" The emotions? Were they real?

"Yes. Everything." I'm sorry. So so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Had I known, you would have been told all of it.

"Not many people do." This was in fact true. There had been three other men in his unit with clearance even remotely approaching his, and only one, now dead, who had the same level.

There food arrived, and John felt himself fall into the familiar routine of prodding Sherlock to eat. This... this was definitely the best date John had ever been on. Mind, he was feeling slightly like a 13 year old boy who'd just asked the prettiest girl to the dance, but it was a heady sort of nervousness.

"Oxytocin and dopamine," Sherlock said between small mouthfuls of food. "dopamine, vasopressin, norepinephrine, testosterone and nerve growth factor," I love you. Of course, Sherlock would have to explain love chemically, than actually say it. But he'd already said it, and that was enough for John.

"The chemical components of love. Not for deletion?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Just like I shouldn't have tried deleting you."

Something twinged inside of John, remembering how he'd hurt Sherlock. "I promise, nothing I said was true. I. Love. You. Sherlock. Holmes. Remember that."

Sherlock nodded, a small smile on his lips, "I'm never leaving again. It hurts too much. I can't... I can't..." John noticed the taller man was tapping his fingers against the table in frustration, "I'm not good at this, not since Victor..."

John reached across the table and grabbed Sherlock's hands in his, "I know. And I still love you. You have to remember that."

Sherlock smiled tentatively at John. Really? You really really really do?

"Yes, I do." Of course, you great sod. I've shot people for you, what else do you need?

The other raised an eyebrow. "Most would not consider homicide romantic, John."

John felt himself laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed without bitterness in a long time. "I haven't been most people since I offered you my phone, Sherlock." For a few seconds, the only thing the two of them could do was look at each other, John smiling stupidly and Sherlock doing the closest thing he could to the same expression.

During this conversation, both had miraculously managed to clear their plates. Angelo, showing timing worthy of a character in a soap opera, showed up right at that moment. "Everything alright?" he asked, smiling brightly.

"Could we have the bill please?" John asked, even though he knew the Italian would refuse money.

True to form, Angelo shook his head, taking their plates. "Have a good night you too," he said, winking.

John started slightly. "Do you want...?" he asked. To be perfectly honest, he was in no mood for sex at that point. But if Sherlock was, he would feel utterly horrible.

"Not really." Sherlock said, a look of relief clearly etched on his face. Apparently, he had been thinking the same as John.

About fifteen minutes later, they were back at 221B. John could feel the emotions he'd shoved away after he'd shot Sebastianne Moran rising to the surface. He really, really did not like killing people. He also realized, not to his surprise though, that he had not limped the entire time he had been with Sherlock.

Sherlock trailed him to his room, and John was sure that he noticed the amount of dust on everything. When John opened the door, he faintly remembered nights spent curled up with one of Sherlock's scarves, trying to memorize the man's scent before it disappeared with nothing to have proved it ever existed besides memory forming brain cells.

Not really caring that Sherlock was in the room with him, John had changed into pyjama bottoms a faded T-Shirt. Turning, he noticed Sherlock had done the same and heaved a sigh of relief.

A few seconds after John got into bed, he felt the sensation of someone curling around him, octopus like. Who would have thought Sherlock would be so clingy? Or maybe the last three years had also had a profound effect on him, not just on John. Being dead sounded just about as pleasant as being in morning, and John had a huge amount of experience with that.

"I'm not going away again," he heard Sherlock mutter, and that's when the floodgates opened. He didn't cry, hadn't cried since year two, but John sobbed. He really really did not like killing people, and it hurt him everytime he did it.

Sherlock, true to his promise earlier that evening, held him the entire time, until they both fell asleep. Both managed to sleep without nightmares that night, something neither of them had been able to do for a long, long time.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up still curled around John. Instead of immediately forcing his mind to full alertness and jumping (almost literally) out of bed, he decided to stay where he was. It was warm, and really, really nice.

Oddly enough, even though John was a full six inches shorter than Sherlock, the two of them were pretty equally meshed together.

Checking the watch on the radio next to the bed, he noticed it was maybe five in the morning. Deciding that maybe a few more hours of sleep snuggled like this wouldn't kill him, he let himself fall back asleep.

The second time Sherlock woke up, he noticed John propped up on an elbow, watching him. He was grinning fondly, but there was also something that said that he was utterly amazed that Sherlock wanted to be with him.

"I missed you," Sherlock said quietly, finding one of John's hands and touching his own to it, so that the palms were touching. He felt John's fingers curl down between his, and Sherlock grabbed his other.

They stayed like this in silence for a good amount of time, then John yawned and broke the contact. "I hate to get up, but I, as a mostly normal human, need food."

Sherlock reluctantly rolled out of bed, thumping on the floor than getting up. "I am fine, I ate last night, remember?" he said, smiling slightly.

"Yes, and a bloody miracle that was too. I won't tell Lestrade, I know you got a reputation and everything," John said, grabbing socks. Old habit, that he had developed in university and hadn't bothered braking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but inside he felt a slightly unfamiliar warm feeling that could not be localized to a specific point. "Yes, I do."

Following John into the kitchen, Sherlock sat in one of the kitchen chairs, pensively staring at the ceiling.

John sat down and started eating. "I'm going to have to clean the place, I suppose. Help me with that?" At Sherlock's incredulous look, John laughed, a smile making him look younger. "I mean, moral support, of course," he sobered slightly, "I haven't been able to touch any of your stuff since... well... you know," he said, making a vague gesture with one hand.

Sherlock felt a twist of guilt clench in his stomach. He hadn't wanted to hurt John. And Sherlock had hurt to, but recent events told him that maybe things would be getting a lot better.

"I'm sorry." I didn't want to hurt you John, John please understand that.

"I know. And I'll be upset sometimes, and you'll probably be upset sometimes. But we'll be okay. I know you don't like bullshitty romantic phrases, but I like to think that people are like puzzle pieces, and even if they get banged up and thrown around, they still fit."

Sherlock cracked a small smile. "I can deal with romantic nonsense from you John," he said.

"'Course you can. 'S my job, being your heart and all. But you are mine too, don't forget that. You. Are. Amazing. Sherlock. Holmes," John said, the last words said forcefully, a finger jabbing against the table for emphasis.

"How you ever fell in love with me John is a mystery," Sherlock said, feeling like a small child who had just discovered how to find patterns in the stars.

John laughed again, another wide grin splitting his face. "How? You are the most amazing man I have ever met. How could I not fall in love with you?"

John got up and walked over to Sherlock. Placing his palms against Sherlock's, he bent his head until their foreheads were touching. "You are special to me, Sherlock Holmes. You kept me alive, kept me sane. Don't ever forget that."

Mycroft smiled slightly at the scene playing out on the computer monitor. Maybe they hadn't needed to interfere after all. This was good.

Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft did want Sherlock to be happy. Not, of course, that he would ever tell Sherlock this. He did have a reputation to maintain.

Greg was sitting next to him in the living room of their flat, computer balanced on one knee each. "I guess love wins after all, eh Myc?" the silver-haired DI asked, grinning a bit foolishly.

"I certainly hope so Gregory." Mycroft answered, pressing a quick kiss to his husband's lips. Closing the laptop, in case images that he'd rather not see happened, Mycroft got up and popped his back. Feeling his mobile vibrate against his leg, he swore when he noticed who it was from, and what it was about.

"Russians annoying you again?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, North Korea this time."

"Uhg." Greg had gotten high level clearance ages ago, at Mycroft's insistence of course. It also may have been related to the fact that Greg had been instrumental in investigating a series of murders inside MI6, murders which nearly ended with a 00 dead, which would not have been good for Quirin at all. "What's Un done this time?"

"Threatening military strikes again."

"The bloody moron doesn't get it at all, does he?"

"That makes him even more dangerous, sadly." Pulling on his jacket, he made his way to the car waiting outside.

"Be safe," Greg called from up the stairs.

"Okay," Mycroft said.

"Okay." That was their thing, as Greg called it. Okay, okay.

After the door closed, when Mycroft couldn't see, Greg whispered, "You better be. I don't know if I could be as strong as John if you died."

Sherlock had just finished an experiment involving beef fat and a pig's liver when he got a text from Lestrade. This surprised him slightly, as there had been complete radio silence for the past day and a half. Then again, considering the scheme set up by Greg and Mycroft to get John and himself back together, this should have been expected.

There's no case, I just need to talk to you and John.

Sherlock dropped the phone again, deciding that this would be more boring than staying at the flat. Moving to the living room, he full body sprawled across the couch, staring at the bullet hole ridden smiley face.

They had cleaned the flat the day before, and it had been an emotional experience for both of them. John because he was dealing with grief head on, instead of just sitting in it, and Sherlock because every dust covered object made another bit of guilt coil in his stomach.

He grabbed a cigarette from a pack that John had left on the table and shoved it between his lips unlit. He'd gotten into the habit out of boredom, but also in tribute to a book that he would never let anyone ever know he had read. He understood the feeling of being a grenade, of hurting people just by existing. When he died, he caused pain, and now that he wasn't he had to help fix it.

Rolling onto his chest, his feet hanging of the end of the couch, he grabbed the cigarette and tossed it at the trash, not missing. It was really unpleasant, all these emotions. Then Sherlock grimaced when he remembered what acting like a psychopath had attracted: a real psychopath, infatuated with him. Which had not ended well for anyone.

He nearly rolled off the couch when he felt someone tap his shoulder. "Sherlock, we need to go, Lestrade wants to talk to us."

Right, of course. John would have received a text too. "Boring," he answered, even though he did in fact want to speak to his pseudo father figure.

"You're still coming." Sherlock answered by rolling off the couch and getting up. Grabbing his coat, he said, "Come along then," and grabbed John's hand to tug him down the steps, ignoring the odd/pleasant feeling this gave him.

* * *

Greg watched the two walk into his office. John sat down, while Sherlock immediately started rattling off a list of deductions.

To Greg's relief, John managed to silence the detective before he said anything that might earn him a punch in the face.

It was obvious to anyone who watched that John and Sherlock in a relationship now. It was like they were two magnets, constantly being pulled back together. A touch on the shoulder, knees brushed together, the two of them always near each other.

Greg had known this would happen eventually, ever since Sherlock allowed John to talk to him during "that thing he does which means he's being a clever sod and no one is allowed to interact with" and John shot a man to save Sherlock's life.

"Thank the gods for the royal baby eh?" Greg asked, grinning to himself when John nodded and Sherlock looked confused.

"What royal baby? I know of the wedding a few years back because Mrs. Hudson talked about it nonstop, but baby?"

"William had a son. The amount of press still about him has kept the press distracted from your continual existence," John explained, grabbing Sherlock's hand for a moment, then letting it go.

"This is why I do not pay attention to celebrity gossip. Dull."

Greg grinned at the pair's antics, but tapped his desk slightly to get their attention.

"Are we in court now, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly.

"No, I just need to talk to the both of you for a moment." Greg had not had the chance to have the "shovel talk" yet, even though Mycroft essentially had, the first time the government official kidnapped John. "Sherlock, if you ever hurt John, I won't kill you, but I will make your life hell. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, looking as scared as he ever was. Though more at the idea of ever hurting John again than Lestrade's threat. Even the thought of hurting his blogger made uncomfortable knots of guilt tie themselves inside himself.

"And John, Sherlock's like the son I'm never going to have. If you hurt him, I will hit you over the head with a literal shovel, a-la-Buffy The Vampire Slayer, got it?"

"Willow?" John raised an eyebrow and Greg thumped his head against his desk. Why had he referenced Buffy again? Oh, right, because it was awesome and still kind of had a crush on Angel.

"Nerdy, gay, and hangs out with the cool kids? Hell yes" Greg answered, completely serious.

"What does that make Mycroft?"

"Still a vampire." Greg answered. Comparing Mycroft to Tara would be... odd.

"I second the notion. Or Giles possibly?" Sherlock said, surprising both John and Greg.

"You watched Buffy?"

"You watched television?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It is a good television show, for an american program. And I also found it funny to quote Giles lines at Mycroft every time he said something."

Greg stared for a moment. "Of course you did. And Giles works, except no, the only thing they have in common is that they are British."

I do like being compared to a librarian who knows everything. Also the Watch part is vaguely accurate. -M

Only you would enjoy that. Does that make Sherlock the Slayer?

Yes. -M

Oh god. I do not want to imagine that in actuality. Sherlock as a girl?!

That would be disturbing, yes. -M

Greg grinned at himself at the image. Though somehow it only worked if he made John into a girl as well.

John had apparently figured who he was texting (courtesy of Sherlock, probably) and had dragged Sherlock out. This had certainly been a productive talk. And he had learned that Sherlock liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Which was certainly interesting.

Dinner?

I have a small situation going on it South Sudan. It should be wrapped up by five o'clock. The usual place? -M

Of course.

John hated dreams like this, where he was perfectly aware of what his body was doing, but had no control over any of his actions or words.

The place was familiar. The pool. He was saying exactly what he'd said, forced to by Moriarty, except this time there was no bomb vest under the jacket. His words weren't said blankly, but cruelly, honestly. He was Moriarty and the hurt on Sherlock's face made him want to claw out his insides.

Everything started spinning, Sherlock's anguished face fading from sight and he found himself on the roof of Saint Bart's, holding a gun on Sherlock, laughing his head off, cruel words that he could not control falling from his lips.

Sherlock by this time looked blank, uncaring. No affection was in his eyes, why should there be, John was Moriarty, evil incarnate.

John mentally screamed as he felt himself push Sherlock off the building, his coat going out like wings as he fell down down down. Only then did he regain control of his body, screaming futilely at the ground.

Sherlock woke up to the sound of John screaming his name, panicked. He looked over at his boyfriend and noticed that John's eyes were squeezed shut. He was twitching, and Sherlock realized with a start that John was having a nightmare.

Working entirely by instinct, he grabbed the shorter man by the shoulders and shook him, whispering, "John, it's okay, I'm here, I'm alive, John it's okay" over and over. Sherlock normally wasn't the type to comfort but this was John.

John woke up with a gasp, pupils closed to pinpricks. "Sherlock," he whispered, grabbing at his face, fingers in his hair. "Sherlock, Sherlock, you're okay." Sherlock felt himself being pulled down for a bone crushing hug, and he tentatively reciprocated.

"Yes, I am alright John. You don't have to worry." He heard John breath a heavy sigh of relief, and once again acting on instinct, Sherlock kissed John full on the mouth.

There was a brief moment where Sherlock thought John would reject the action, but any thoughts were swiftly neutralized when John reciprocated the action.

The kiss was brief, and a little awkward, like most first kisses. Or at least, like the one other Sherlock had had in his life. Mouths were kept closed, but that didn't mean that the attraction was not apparent.

But this was hardly the time for anything truly sexual. Sherlock had kissed John to remind his boyfriend that Sherlock was there, and very, very real. And John kissed back to tell Sherlock that he understood. That whatever doubts he'd had about the legitimacy of Sherlock's continued existence among the living were now gone.

After they broke apart, John shoved himself against Sherlock, curled up against him. "I dreamed I killed you. I was Moriarty, I pushed you off St. Bart's," he whispered into Sherlock's side.

"You didn't kill me. I am alive, John. More alive than I was these past three years."

John grinned, tired even after the nightmare. "Good. I love you."

"I love you too" Sherlock answered, smiling at the darkness.

John's breathing slowly evened out as he fell asleep, and Sherlock watched him. He was lucky. He knew that quite well.

Taking a look through his mind palace, he was surprised to find that every thing was as it had been before The Fall. The John room was back in its proper place, the safe around his heart unlocked. And everything was quiet.

The loud, incessant banging and clacking of life was quiet. Quieted by John, because John was his anchor, what kept him from drifting into space like a rogue planet.

"I'm keeping you" Sherlock whispered, curling himself around his doctor. "I'm never letting you go. Ever. Never hurting you again.

* * *

AN: That's all folks! Hope you liked it, this story took a lot out of me. It's posted in chapters over at AO3 (LighDarkPheonix).


End file.
